


Someday We'll Be Kings and Queens

by infinitum (rriverruns)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rriverruns/pseuds/infinitum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a million swordsmen cannot protect you from a monster that's within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday We'll Be Kings and Queens

**Author's Note:**

> This is One Direction + 5 Seconds of Summer + Original Characters, based in the Game of Thrones universe. 
> 
> I've been really stupid and begun this literally right before school starts, but hopefully it'll actually get somewhere
> 
> Also y'all can follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rriverruns) and [tumblr ](http://hzzrry.tumblr.com/) thanks bros

STEPH

"The air is warm here, Lord Stone, too warm." Steph tightened his reigns as they approached a bridge, stopping his horse, their guards, and his Lord, reluctantly. "Nonsense, Steph. You are merely imagining these things. Do not tell me you have succumbed yourself to these childish superstitions?" Samwyel Stone was not a man of games. He followed his namesake to the core - stone hearted and stone-faced. For a man nearing 80 years, he brought much more fear into someone's heart that necessary. Steph breathed deeply. All around them snow fell, yet he could feel the warmth lurking. Steph prayed it was not the Heat. That was not a regular warmth, but rather one that radiated from within, one that spread like wildfire and burned into your very bones until your poor body could not take it any longer. It was an agonising death - and a fabricated one at that. The Heat was the story that nannies told their kids to scare them from leaving the indoors at night, promising them that the angry souls of people killed thousands of years ago on this very land would take them, their age-old rage burning hot enough to kill. So, if the winter cold did not scare away the children, the Heat definitely did. Yet, although it may have been just a fairy tale, lately a whisper had spread throughout the kingdoms that the Heat was real, and out there. Steph had ignored the rumours, but something inside him felt wrong. There he was, standing in the middle of the Dark Forest with an old Lord and only a couple guardsmen - his luck could not get any worse. He was the Commander of the Swords at Steinhal, and knew his way around any opponent with a longsword in hand. But a fighter from within, that was a different deal altogether.

"Come on, Steph. We have a long ways to go and I do not have time to waste." Samwyel and the guards were already across the bridge when Steph looked up, the fear imminent in his expression. The lord rolled his eyes and gave a long disappointed sigh, "You are no better than my child daughter, it seems. Will you be able to continue on this journey or shall I have to leave you here like a suckling pig waiting to be slaughtered by who-knows-what?" He shook his head and turned his mount, heading into the cluster of trees before Steph had a chance to answer. It was a long moment before the commander finally took up the reigns again, nudging his horse onwards into the darkness and cold, hoping it would stay that way until Summer came.

IZY

Izy's fingers were sore, blisters starting to form along the creases of her fingers from hours of needlework class. She was the only student, and the teacher was her ancient nanny Mother Myrell. Her work was outstanding, impressing not only Mother Myrell but also everyone else her nanny had proudly shown her creations to, although she had reason to believe their words of praise may have come from different origins. Nevertheless, she hated needlework with a burning passion - it was tedious, boring, and painful. It was the reason she now sat in her room, servants wrapping thin bandages around her callused fingers while she stared out the window at the vast expanse below. She loved her room, not because of the fancy decor - gold plated, sleek tarwood furniture, rich purple satin curtains, a silk bedspread soft as clouds, but because of the view. From the North window an impeccable view of the valleys that rolled out in what seemed like an infinite space, only stopping where her eyes could not see them anymore, no matter how hard she strained them. From the West window, a forest that stretched out for miles until the Angry Sea’s bay cut it off, light and welcoming, nothing like the Dark Forest that so many dreaded to enter, and even less were lucky enough to exit. Finally, to the East she had a small opening to watch the castle's own courtyard. It may not have been as beautiful as the other views, but it was many times more entertaining. Their Commander of the Swords Tarnly had just brought in new recruits for their army - sellswords looking to make use of their practice, jailers who would rather fight to the death than take it on the chopping block; anyone who was somewhat fit to fight and not otherwise occupied now resided at Valerune for a chance to serve the lord of the Valley.

The servants finished with her bandages, cleaned up and left with a low bow. She nodded them off. Finally, she had time to herself. She got up and moved to the sill by the East window, taking a seat and directing her gaze to the courtyard below. Her brother Rickard, almost a man at 14, sparred with some lowly convicts. It was all in good spirit, and their laughter and cheer could be heard even high up in the tower. With his soft dark hair and twinkly eyes, Rickard was of course the love of all the castle. Even the finest of Izy's needlework could not compare to his charm, his hypnotic charisma. He was destined to rule - to take over Valerune after their lord father, to wage and win wars, and to father many sons and daughters who would one day do just the same as him. Izy was destined to marry a rich lord, to have his sons and daughters, and to look pretty while the work was laid in others' hands. It was not a life she would enjoy greatly, but that was the way it would be. A different group of recruits had moved up for training, a crowd of young sellswords looking to show off whatever talent they had. The first that stood up to spar was a boy around Rickard's age, with light brown hair and a cool demeanor. He was well built, lean and quick, a worthy opponent. Izy watched closely as their wooden practice swords clashed together again and again, smirking to herself. Finally, a match to show Rickard where he stood. She leaned further and further out, squinting to get a closer look. The boy was so pretty, almost too good-looking to be a simple sellsword from a village. His face was as though he belonged on the throne, dressed in beautiful lavender garments and a bronze crown upon his head. He would rule the kingdoms fairly and kindly, and she would sit with him by day, and bed with him by night... 

It was a slip of her hand that brought Izy from these daydreams. Her entire upper-body was sticking from the window like a sore thumb, and she had lost balance, leaning dangerously out and almost tumbling off the ledge. She let out an embarrassingly loud yell in fright, but caught herself before she fell. The noise, however, did catch the attention of the fighters below. The sellsword looked up for a moment and eye contact was made. He grinned a toothy grin with deep dimples forming on his sun-tanned cheeks, and Izy turned shades of scarlet she had only seen in the sky of a setting sun. At that moment she did not ever want to marry a rich lord and bear his children - she wanted to run off into the wild with this sellsword and be alone with him forever. But before she could return the smile, Rickard took his chance and lay down a strong swing to the boy's head, a loud crack resounding throughout the courtyard as the poor sellsword crumpled to the cobblestoned ground.

HARRY

Harry was out in the forest when the sun set. Each step was carefully taken in the soft mud, his bare feet sinking into the cool ground. He moved swiftly between the trees, eyes trained downwards for fear of tripping over a stray root. Leaves rustled softly in the trees as a slight breeze swept through the forest, bringing up the hairs on the back of his neck. The last winds of Winter were blowing through the kingdoms, a final whisper of goodbye before Spring arrived fully, with its blooming flowers and green grass. Harry loved the forest no matter what season – it was his only friend in this world. The trees, the small stones that decorated the mud ground, the silence; they were all his companion, his confidante when there was no other. Streaks of orange light filtered through the trees, casting a long shadow that followed him through the forest like a brother that ran at his heel wherever he went. It was a lonely life for a bastard, a son no father would claim, a brother no boy would ever accept as his own. Valerune was where he resided, but the forest was where he lived. His lord father had felt the utmost shame at fathering a bastard, and brought him home when he was barely a babe. Nobody knew who his birth mother was and, with the way Lord Tarron looked when someone brought it up, it was clear they never would. The family was decent enough - they provided him with food to eat and a bed to sleep in, but they did not give him a family to love or a home to truly live in. That, Harry had decided, was what the forest was for. The wind kept his secrets, swirling them around in the tall dark sky where no one would hear. The trees, strong and tall, gave him something to lean on when he grew tired, almost the comforting embrace of a mother. And when the need arose, the soft petals of the wildflowers caught his tears as they slid down his pale cheeks.

The setting sun had cast a glowing light upon the castle Valerune, framing it with shades of violet and blue. Hunger growled in the pit of Harry’s stomach, but the boy ignored the pain. Dinner with the Tarrons was many times worse than a little ache. He continued his hike, working his way deeper into the forest’s core, humming a light tune to distract himself from the hunger. He walked a different path each day, using only his instinct to find his way back each night. Occasionally he wouldn’t make it in time, before the moon rose high in the sky and creatures crawled out of their dwellings. When that happened, he would simply fashion a makeshift bed out of leaves and an old log, and fall fast asleep under the heavy black sky. The Tarrons did not notice most times, plus he sometimes found he slept with more ease out in the forest than within the castle’s walls. Harry wrapped his arms around his torso, shivering slightly in his thin tunic and cotton trousers. The sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, retiring for the day as the last streaks of light filled the forest. He decided it would be a night spent sleeping by the trees; he would just have to brave the cool night air. The cold was not his biggest worry, but rather the animals that called the forest their home. No matter how many times he had spent the night outside, a certain fear crept into his mind every night. And now, as darkness finally began to conceal the sky, he swore he heard growls coming from every direction. Immediately his entire body tensed up. His lord father had let him have some swording practice, but it was minimal and no use out here where he bore no sword. Although it was nowhere near as chilling as the Dark Forest, Valerune’s forest was the home to many beasts Harry tried to keep his distance from at all times. He was not a coward, but he was wise. Better to be a cautious man than a fearless dead one. He was definitely afraid; the images of a wolf or a seahawk mauling him to pieces did have a way of creeping into his mind, no matter how hard he tried to block them off. Being frightened did not label him a coward, though. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts, breathed in deeply, and carried on, concentrating on pushing the mental pictures out of his mind. It wasn’t long before he had to stop again, except this time it was a blockage in his path. 

A summer lynx lay before him; broad paws spread out and teeth bared, stopping his heart for just a moment. It was truly the biggest creature he had ever seen – luckily it also appeared dead, unmoving but with no visible injuries. Harry carefully stepped towards it, searching for any sign of life, but the lynx laid still, its fur matted with mud and gravel. He had heard of lynxes before from Mother Myrell, who loved to tell stories to anyone who’d listen, even when the only one who would was the lord’s bastard son. They were a proud and dignified beast, noble enough to be the sigil of the king’s house. They had not been sighted for quite a while, definitely not in the Valerune forest. Was it a sign? A prophecy of some sort? Whatever it was, its corpse undeniably disturbed Harry. He picked his way around the body, only to find that the lynx was not alone. A cub hid behind its mother, whining softly and trying to find shelter against the body. Its fur was black as the night sky, something that made Harry stop and stare for a long time, a grim feeling in his heart. Lynxes had not been seen for a while, but black lynxes were thought to be gone forever. A cub no older than a month, probably better off dead than trying to survive on its own in the wild, but Harry knew he had to take it in. He was no boy of superstitions, but there he stood watching an abandoned cub. _He saw himself in its eyes._ All fear escaped him, as he swiftly moved forward, and picked up the lynx, bringing it close to his chest. Maybe, for once in his life, the forest would not have to be his only friend.

JASTINE

The air filled with the piercing music of the short horns, musicians turning red as they forced the noise out of their instruments. The fanfare, though shrill, filled Jastine with an uplifting sense. It was her day. She stepped gracefully down from the carriage that had brought her to the Center Palace and curtsied swiftly for all the court to see. Clad in a sheer blue dress gown, gold enamors decorating her sleeves and waist and the shiny bronze sigil pinned to her right chest, she looked a true princess. Her father sat ahead of her, sitting in his throne like it was a bed of nails. Brows furrowed and lips pulled into a slight frown, Brandon the Good did not look the spitting image of a king. He ruled the kingdoms kindly but with justice, and many were convinced he was the best king the kingdoms had ever been graced with. Sometimes, though, it appeared that their good king would rather be serving the throne than seated in it. Jastine smiled softly. She could not have her father looking like a timid child on her name day. Luckily, he eased up and returned the smile, his iron grip on the throne’s jade hand-rests loosening. She began the walk down the wide hall, townspeople crowding on both sides, trying to get a better view of the princess. She loved knowing that people were watching her every move, eagerly anticipating any word she said or look she cast. She was 13 that day, almost a woman. Soon her royal father and mother would choose a husband for her. They asserted they were still thinking about the most fit to be the next ruler of the kingdoms, but Jastine had already set her eye on a man that she would stop at nothing to get. Leogar Stone, son of Lord Samwyel Stone, a handsome young man with neat dark brown hair and gray eyes. He filled the verses of many songs and poems and the dreams of all the girls in the kingdoms, but no girl was any competition to her – Jastine was the princess, and that was all she needed. But she knew very well that her parents did not love him half as much as she did. Charming, maybe; Handsome, definitely. But fit to rule a kingdom? That was something else altogether. Her father was not strong-willed, though, and she knew she could convince him one way or another. It was her queen mother that gave her worry – what the king lacked in confidence, the queen definitely made up for. It would be hard work, but Jastine could do it. She could do anything she wanted. 

The ceremony was decent. She sat flawlessly in the second throne as the performers sang their songs and danced their dances, smiled flawlessly as her thousand gifts were presented one by one, and when the feast arrived she nibbled at some food and drank her first sips of wine, wincing at the sharp taste but only when no one was looking. When all her guests, royal and regular, retired for the night, she joined her mother and father in the center chamber. It was then that a sharp knock filled the room, and Mæster Dagos entered after her father had beckoned him to. He carried a long scroll, updating them on numbers, on events, any issue that the king and queen had to deal with themselves. It was a tedious matter, but absolutely necessary. When he had at last finished, he turned to Jastine, to her surprise. 

“One last thing, My Princess, I thought this would be of interest to you.” His face had taken on a grim expression. Worries filled her mind, but she kept her poise. “Continue, Mæster Dagos.” He straightened his back and scratched at his temple, before speaking in a low voice. “Leogar Stone of house Steinhal is in critical condition. Involved in a hunting accident, I have heard. He lays still breathing but his life hangs by a thin thread. My deepest apologies, My Princess. I know that you cared for the boy.”

STEPH

The Dark Forest was perhaps the biggest forest that existed in all the kingdoms and beyond. Of course, nobody had made it all the way through and lived to confirm it, but that was the way it seemed and that was the way everyone told it. And even though they were barely travelling into the forest’s interior, Steph felt like they had entered a different world altogether. The hours stretched on until he did not know what time of day it was, the same trees and boulders passed them by until he doubted they were making any progress at all. The guards were losing the eagerness they had had at the beginning of a journey – the Dark Forest had a way of draining any positive emotion. Lord Stone soldiered on, silent and strong. Steph admired him for all he was, but he knew they were all being dragged into their deaths, whether by the Heat or by a stray wolf. He was sure of it, especially when Lord Stone fell from his horse one day, landing softly in the weak grass below him. They had all rushed down from their horses, fear large in their hearts. He had suffered no serious injuries, save for his dignity, but he appeared pale and weak. Steph sat him up against a tree, wrapping his own cloak around the Lord. 

“What is it, my Lord?” Samwyel only looked at him with sad eyes. “I do not know, Steph, but I feel frail.” His voice was thin and raggedy, barely audible. “Take the cloak off, it is too hot.” Steph’s face drained of colour. Even with many layers on, he could feel the forest’s cold as if he were naked. “Too hot, my Lord?” He prayed it was not what he thought. “The burning. I can feel it in my bones. Help me, Steph, please. It’s the Heat.” His eyes closed softly. He was still alive, but Steph knew they had lost him. He looked a different man completely, small and delicate, like a child. Steph called to a guard, ordering him to send off a raven back to Steinhal immediately. He feared for the worst. It took a lot for a man like Samwyel Stone to think he had the Heat, but the Dark Forest worked in mysterious, sinister ways.


End file.
